


De Lait et de Miel

by Opium_du_Peuple



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, First and Last Kiss, M/M, night of the barricade, so much religious symbolism, some french weaved in there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 16:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5097704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opium_du_Peuple/pseuds/Opium_du_Peuple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night of the barricade, Grantaire looks for Enjolras as though his life depends on it. He has something to do, something he needs to do, and if he's to die tonight, he won't go gently before he's done it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	De Lait et de Miel

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!!  
> This little thing has been on my mind for a few days now and wouldn't leave so you know how it goes, the only way to get it out is to write it down! I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!  
> As ever, your feedback is always welcomed and appreciated :3

The sound of bullets was both distant and deafening. Bang. A bullet. Bang a body. The walls of the Musain weren't thick enough to stop the noise from reaching Grantaire, oh no. He was deeply aware of the situation, no matter how much he had had to drink. Not enough, apparently.

He had held a gun for the first time tonight. Jean Prouvaire had held a gun for the first time tonight. Both who understood nothing but love and liberty had been introduced to a concept they had heard of, but never witnessed : death. Life was such a fragile thing, at the end of the day, held up by flimsy strings a bullet could sever so easily. It was a gift Grantaire had always refused to consider as such, but the thought of being dispossessed of it was unbearable. He had things to do first. One in particular.

The Musain was full of people, students, volunteers, wounded and dead alike. Some were reloading their guns before going back to the barricade, others were taking care of those in need of assistance. Grantaire staggered passed Bossuet, his sleeve covered in blood, though he couldn't have told if it was his or someone else's. He walked on. Where was he? Up there, on the barricade, at the mercy of the bullets? He had not heard of him in so long... Each minute was an eternity, an ever-growing abyss between them. It could have been ten or sixty, time flies when death knocks at the door and sneaks in by the broken window. What if he was dead? His beautiful, flawless features bruised against the cobbles of the street, his lush curls soaked in his own blood? No, no, he would have known. He would have heard the outcry of despair if their leader had been shot. Alive, he's still alive, he told himself.

And as he did, Enjolras walked into the café, his hips still swaggering in spite of themselves, his brow furrowed in concentration. An angelic vision amidst what Dante would have described as a circle of hell, a dream clashing with a nightmare. He was Michael fighting against Lucifer, an archangel in all his warlike glory. The collar of his shirt had been torn apart, revealing a skin marbled in soot, sweat and blood, a singular combination Grantaire would have immortalised on a canvas, given the opportunity. His cravat had been reduced to a dangling thing around his neck, more there out of habit than necessity. If he was wounded, his pace didn't give it away as he strode towards the stock of guns. He had grabbed one for himself and flung another to Feuilly before Grantaire shook himself out of his torpor.

"Enjolras!"

The leader stopped dead in the middle of his stride and even in the urgency of the moment, Grantaire couldn't help but to notice the grace of his movements as he turned towards him. He practically ran up to him and yet, he felt insufferably slow. The atmosphere of the Musain was so thick of blood and whimpers that moving through it was a feat. His hand landed on Enjolras's cheek with all the softness that he could muster, his fingertips finally meeting the skin they had longed for, and his lips found their sisters effortlessly. The kiss muffled the gasp of surprise Enjolras had been meaning to let out and Grantaire held on desperately onto him. If he was to die, he might as well taste his own little piece of heaven before the great unknown. And to his utmost surprise, he felt the leader's body relaxing against him and his head tilting on the side, inviting him for more. He felt these foreign yet familiar lips calling for him, claiming his own and he held tighter. He heard himself sigh as Enjolras wrapped his arm around his waist, the stock of the gun hard against his back.

Rather fitting, he thought, to stand between Enjolras and a gun.

"Enjolras!"

A voice called and in the blink of an eye, the kiss was broken. At the door, Combeferre was nodding pressingly towards the barricade. Enjolras's gaze went from him to Grantaire and the latter wondered if, just for a second, the leader in red was hesitating between him and France. He watched him swallow the lump in his throat, his lips still pink and swollen.

"Pourquoi?" he asked breathlessly.

"Tu nous as promis un pays ruisselant de lait et de miel mais je crains de ne pouvoir y goûter qu'à travers toi."

Swiftly, a hand settled on the back of his head and drew their lips together once more. One more taste. One more sigh. Just one more single, blissful second before the gunshots, the blood and the wounded became part of their world again, before Enjolras walked out, casting a glance over his shoulder to the pilgrim who had finally reached the holy land.

**Author's Note:**

> A little bit of translation for the dialogue:  
> "Why?"  
> "You've promised us a land milk and honey but I fear I will only ever taste it through you."
> 
> Hope you liked it! If you want to say hi and yell at me you can find me at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com/) mon tumblr ;)


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